Holy Headache

The LORD looks down from heaven on the sons of men to see if there are any who understand, any who seek God. (Psalm 14:2)

Being God must get really depressing. There you are, sitting on your throne, the maker of heaven and earth, looking down at the world you have made. You search for the umpteenth time for somebody, anybody who has even the slightest clue about the way the game is supposed to be played. You keep telling yourself that eventually somebody’s down there will figure it out. You made a nice little world for them but they don’t seem to notice. You gave them decent laws but everybody ignores them. You sent prophets to yell at them, but the people killed nearly all of them. You sent your own boy down there and the nailed him to a post. Even sending the Holy Ghost, a bit of a renegade himself, only succeeded in instigating the Pentecostal movement, something you’ve never quite forgiven him for.

Then there were the judgments. You figured that maybe you could scare the hell out of them. There were diseases. There was pestilence. There were the plagues. (You’re still kind of proud of those.) You sent drought. You sent fire. You sent famine. You sent snakes. You summoned armies. You struck with leprosy. You hurled brimstone. There was that big flood thing. (Maybe, you admit, that was a bit of overkill.) You’ve done blindness, storms, earthquakes, and barrenness. There are times when you wonder if they actually are the work of your hands or appeared unbidden like mildew or rust.

For sure, there have been a few—a very few—who got it. Enoch. Abraham. Moses. The prophets. A couple of the apostles. A few others throughout human history. But the plain fact of the matter is that, if you rule out divine interference, there ain’t nobody who truly understands, nobody who seeks you like they’re supposed to. Sometimes you get frustrated. Sometimes you get peeved. Sometimes you get downright homicidal. You sigh a lot. You’ve run every trick in the book and a few you just made up on the fly. You’ve tried reasoning with them, explaining to them, pleading with them. But these folks are hardwired for hell.

Nothing seems to work. You forgive them, they refuel the sin tank. You show them grace, they use it as a license for immorality. You discipline them, they accuse you of pettiness. Even infinite patience wears out eventually. You don’t know how much longer you can hold out. You read through the book of Revelation for consolation. You sooth your nerves with visions of wrath and unutterable punishments. Yes, you will uncork the bottle; you will pour out your burdens upon the ungrateful rabble. Soon. Yes, very soon.

But not just yet, you tell yourself. Maybe things will change. Maybe with just a little more time. (Dang that mercy streak in you. It always complicates things.) Ach! Admit it. You’re a sucker for those lowlifes. They’re so cute when they’re little, and they do make things interesting. Too bad some of them are going to have to be deleted. But the others, the keepers. . . . You shrug. What’s a God to do?